


Post Credits

by The_Client



Series: Scenes from an Alternate Episode IX (writing order) [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ahch-To, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Kylo Ren, Hurt/Comfort, Rey is Not a Palpatine, Sharing a Bed, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Fix-It, Virgin Kylo Ren, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), broom kid reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Client/pseuds/The_Client
Summary: Rey and Ben contemplate the next phase of their relationship. All works in this series can be read independently, or in any order, though this one follows closely onResolution (Saving What We Love).Content warning: very mild/brief references to mental health issues, abuse and suicidal thoughts***“I do want that, eventually, you know,” she says conversationally. Then, because she's no longer that eternal child on Jakku: “Sex.I mean, I’ve never felt like Ineededit, but I’minterested.If you are.”He manages only a half-breathless “Rey.” But he is, emphatically, interested.“Ben. Rest and heal for me.”“Okay.”After a while he strokes the fabric of her raincloak, her knee beneath it. “I like the emerald,” he murmurs. “You’d look good in other colors, too. Sapphire blue. Garnet red.”You're beautiful.“Color. Radical concept. Will you try it, if I do?”So are you.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Scenes from an Alternate Episode IX (writing order) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600099
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Post Credits

From the vantage of the temple island, Ahch-To's suns are just beginning to dip into the sea when she guides the  _Mirrorbright_ in for the second time. He isn't there to meet her, exactly; she'd admonished him to stay put, not to aggravate his injuries. But he's hauled himself out of the hut she left him in, bracing himself between his stick and the wall,  wearing one of Skywalker's ostentatiously coarse and faded blankets for a cloak.

“You weren't kidding about making a supply run,” he notes, eyeing the sacks of goods draped over her sturdy, if tiring, shoulders.

She smiles, to reward him for focusing on the present and the external enough to make this most modest attempt at small talk; and because it feels so  _right_ to be back in his company, though they've been physically separated for mere hours, and truly separated not at all. (The latter isn't possible any more, if it ever was.)

“Just what I could pick up without calling attention to myself, and easily stash on the _Mirrorbright_. It's a good ship.” Her brow furrows. “ _Your_ ship, really. Maybe I should leave it with you, when I'm … away.” 

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Chewie could follow me here, then take me out with him on the _Falcon,_ ” she rattles on, ducking inside the hut to put down her haul. _“_ He'd like to see you, I think. Not to kill you. Not even to yell at you, or not mostly. Would you like to see him?”

“I'd be terrified. But it should be his choice, if he wants to see me. Even to … yell at me.” The hitch in his voice makes her realize with belated horror what _else_ she just said.

“Anyway,” she hastens to change the subject. “The _Mirrorbright._ You might welcome the shelter, once you feel how the drafts blow through these huts at night. Or the sonic.”

“Do I smell that bad?” 

It's a genuine, if threadbare, attempt at humor.  “ Raised in poverty on a desert planet, remember?” she returns in kind. “But if getting clean is worth the hassle of moving around, I'll help.”

It  _is_ worth it to him; she doesn't need the bond to read the longing on his face. But he avoids her eyes, ashamed of his need for assistance, embarrassed by –  _oh._

She snorts. “I've seen a naked man before, you know.” 

(It was true: communal facilities on Jakku couldn't realistically cater to all the gender-separation customs of the various species, and even if they'd tried, there'd been no one both capable of and interested in enforcing such boundaries. She'd had her share of offers, of course. Luckily none she couldn't fend off. Luckily Plutt considered himself  _not a monster_ because he didn't sell his charges' virginity, or take advantage of them  _that way_ himself.

Not that the offers had all been unpleasant; not that she hadn't been curious. But in her mind she'd been a child, forever awaiting her parents' return. Now, though, the womb of the island had washed the childhood knots from her hair; the broken vessel of the _Supremacy_ had rebirthed her a grown thing, free. Somewhere along the line, he's become essential; she wants to _touch_ , to luxuriate in contact. And if she feels no particular urgency about that specific mode of touch, neither is she averse to it.)

“I parked the ship as close to the village as I could.” Not especially close, in other words. “Do you want to try for the sonic? Or just use water? I bought a heater, and soap.”

They opt for the latter; or rather she makes a command decision, informed by the way he pales at the idea of trekking to the  _Mirrorbright_ . She fills Skywalker's largest cooking vessel at the village well, sets it over the heater, then helps him out of his clothes. And because it's so  _unfair_ , that he should have to bear such a greater load of vulnerability just because he'd taken the worst of the physical beatings on Exogol, she strips too – even though she'd used the sonic while the  _Mirrorbright_ was on auto. 

“You can _look,_ ” she says, though his goggle-eyed efforts to simultaneously look and not-look are so hilarious, she's tempted to let them continue. Her life's had no room for preciousness about modesty, but to be seen by him is different _._ There's the tiniest edge of anxiety, when she's never had cause to care, before, what anyone else thinks of her body – but it's quickly subsumed by the thrill, the unexpected urge to stand up straighter and display herself for his admiration.

She looks, herself, finding him thinner than the other time she'd seen him partially unclothed; wincing at the ragged scars spanning half his lower torso, that had been covered, that time, by what she now realizes must have been a therapeutic support. His side and his leg are still blue-black under the spent bacta patches; the rest of him more mildly and generally combat-battered, like her own body but more so. (She lets herself look  _there_ , too, but only briefly, because he's exhausted and in pain and so much more embarrassed than she is.) 

As much as possible, she gives him the dignity of washing himself and applying new treatments to his injuries, assisting only when the limitations on his mobility require it. Finally she helps him into some of the loose, soft clothes she's procured. They're black, because it's his established preference and he hasn't told her that preference has changed; and because her epiphany on Exogol taught her the essential silliness of the concept of the Dark Side, let alone of stigmatizing kriffing  _colors of clothing_ because of their supposed association with it; and because it suits him. (The things she bought for herself are mostly in the neutrals she’s accustomed to; but the warm, waterproof poncho she pulls on last is a rich green – the color that had so deliciously shorted her mental circuits, when the  _Falcon_ broke atmo above her first non-desert planet.) 

By the time he's dressed and in the leg brace again, he's swaying where he sits.

“You didn't even try to sleep while I was gone, did you?” she scolds. “How long's it been since you've slept properly?”

“I'm … not sure what that even means?”

Her eyes roll, but fondly. “Let me help. No drugs – unless you've changed your mind about trying the painkillers from the medkit, which I still think would be an extremely sensible idea. Just ...  _help._ I won't let anything bad happen to you while you're out, and I'll still be here when you wake up.” She smooths his damp hair back, kisses his temple to soothe the wave of shame at having his terrors so unerringly identified.  “ How are you most comfortable sleeping? On your back?”

His preferences have been of so little consequence, for so long, that the question flummoxes him. But sensory memories echo in the bond: on his side, curled protectively around himself (though the protection never held, not against his old master, not against the nightmares). 

So she moves to the side of him that isn't black and blue, and gently orders him to roll onto it and spoon her; pulls his arm over and clasps his hand in her own, holding it in the hollow between her chest and throat where her pulse will be palpable to him, her lips ready nearby.  _Breathe with me_ , she says, and sinks into the bond until his bodily sensations echo in her own flesh; adjusts her rhythm to the least unhappy medium between the calming effect of deep respiration, and the danger of aggravating his probably-fractured ribs. 

Finally, he stills; and through the night, whenever he awakens her by going tense with incipient terror, she tightens her grip on his hand, kisses knuckles and fingers and projects with all her might,  _You are safe_ , until his pulse slows and his muscles loosen again.

***

In the morning they sit outside, she tinkering absently with a blaster from the ship's locker while he leans against the wall, content to stay still once he's upright-ish and out of the dark confines of the hut. The sun's out for once, the wind just pleasantly bracing. The Lanai women, come for their daily bustling-about, stare daggers at her, the Destroyer of Property. She hopes they won't hold her reputation against him when she's away. (Feels strangely saddened, that he no longer seems apt to contribute to it.)

In time, though, she says – must say – “I've had an idea.”

“I know. I mean, I felt something, just as you were taking off to get the supplies.”

“Felt something? Not the full details of what I was thinking, then?”

“No.”

She tells him.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay? That's it?” She has, after all, proposed a rather radical change in his life trajectory. 

(Yes, he'd already made such choice when he joined her on Exogol – but these details hadn't been part of that equation. Probably –  _not_ probably, she knows better, and she makes herself face the knowledge square for just a moment before letting it slide into might-have been – he'd expected to die.)

“Rey.” He shifts slightly, the better to half-look at her through the ragged curtain of his hair. “I know you've felt that … euphoria? That clarity. Since Exogol. But for me, it was … sort of the opposite.”

“I know.” _You don't have to talk about it._ But he continues.

“Nothing feels … quite real. Nothing except you. But what you just said … doesn't feel wrong? Nothing's felt like that, for so long. Maybe ever. So … okay.”

She sets her blaster parts aside and kisses him carefully, keeping one of his hands in her own when they separate. “I do feel invincible,” she confesses. “But I can't trust that feeling. I mean, what do I do? Go to the New Republic – New New Republic? – government and demand my rights as the last Jedi, to determine the fates of future Force-users?” 

_To determine_ your _fate,_ she can't help thinking, even though he must be able to sense something of it and she hates doing that to him _._ She can picture herself proclaiming,  _as the Galaxy's foremost Force-user, the punishment of Force-criminals is mine to determine, as the Jedi of old disciplined their own. And for this one I choose exile, and a life of service._ But the words are bile on her tongue. He's been punished plenty; and without him she'd lie dead on Exogol while  _the ancient evil_ once again enfolded the galaxy. He'd been as necessary – as much the  _hero_ , if such half-witting instruments of the Force could be called such – as she.

“I mean, I'm _not_ invincible, am I? Even the Jedi at their peak could be taken, with enough firepower.”

“Do you really think your friends would do that to you?” He's earnest, then embarrassed, dropping his eyes. “Sorry. I mean, if you just want to vent and need me to shut up – ”

“No. Talk to me.”

“Okay. Your friends.”

She sighs. “My personal friends wouldn't hurt me like that, no. Not even over...”

“Not even over protecting me.” Quiet, but steady.

She squeezes his hand. “But I don't know who'll be in charge of whatever the Resistance becomes now. I don't think I even care. But means something – a lot – to them. I'd hate to put them in the position of choosing between me and their ideals.”

He tips his head back against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, thumb stroking her hand. Thinking.

“Okay. Do you have any other potential allies? Anyone outside of all that?”

She furrows her brow. Thinks of Chewie, who serves not so much the Resistance as certain individuals to whom he holds himself bound; who she feels certain  _would_ like to see his nephew again, alive. Of Maz Kanata, who'd tried to teach her not about the political philosophy of the New Republic, but about the Force and destiny. 

Then she has it.

She feels vague residual guilt, revealing what had until recently been Resistance secrets to one so decidedly not on the need-to-know list. But this card's been played, and she knows beyond doubt that his intention to leave the game – forever – is sincere.

“This friend of mine” – Rose, whom she'd been too busy, and too hesitant to lower her walls, to get to know properly; but who she hopes would consider her a friend – “sort of accidentally acquired this sort of … underground youth army? They … helped, when the stormtroopers rebelled. You might have felt it, on Exogol?”

Faint amusement. “I felt something, that could have been that.”

“Right. Well, a few of them are Force-sensitive. And I don't think they'll be that interested in what the New Republic government has to say.” Not even Rose, once she went all boring grown-up on them. “They're moved by _stories_. And they're good at spreading them.” 

(Temiri had never been particularly harmed by the First Order. His bane had been the parents who sold him into slavery –  _and I'm not the least bit emotionally over-invested in a story like that, no, of course not –_ and the greed and heartlessness that sentient beings everywhere seemed to find so hard to overcome, so monstrously flowered on Canto Bight. Surely the story – the  _truth –_ of the fallen and redeemed Ben Solo would move him and his kind, as that of Luke Skywalker had.

Then all at once she sees it, solid and clear: Temiri in the village, surrounded by stone huts, but also by prefabricated shelters; because while there's value in the ancient ways of the Jedi, they're not to be venerated as ends in themselves, but questioned and interrogated by young minds until all that's useful and good in them is inextricably twined with all that's bright and _new._ Translations of the Jedi texts on datapads, just one of many resources available to them; it'd been such an easy concession, to let the new government keep the originals in a museum.

And in the shelter they'd built just far enough up-slope for privacy, the figure the students have glimpsed only from afar, because after decades of isolation the presence of so many bright minds that are neither victims nor tormentors is so  _much_ that it's a sort of pain, one they hope (she aches with it, that hope) will gradually fade. But  _her_ he greets by wrapping his body around her, gifting her every possible inch of the contact she craves; by patiently talking her through the dilemmas of the day, however minor, just as he's doing now.

_Always in motion_ , say the texts, and she well knows how even a vision come true in every particular can turn out to mean something very different than expected. But Maker, she  _wants_ this.)

Whatever's on her face alarms him enough to bring his hand to her cheek; then he pulls her gently closer, rests his forehead against hers as the vision sparks across the bond. 

“Okay,” he says so softly, stroking the hair back from her face. “See? It'll be okay.”

***

That night he deigns to try the painkillers from the ship's medkit, stoically terrified but trusting her to guard him from whatever comes in the night, should the drug leave him too mentally incapacitated to guard himself. Half the standard dose for an average-sized human takes the edge off, lets him – and therefore her – rest more soundly. They sleep late, and wake refreshed, but feeling no immediate need to move. She wants him curled around her back forever. But also, she wants to bring her vision to pass.

“Are you sure you'll be okay for a while without me?”

“I'm alright.”

“You're so black and blue you can barely move.” _And it's not been two cycles since you last talked about deserving to die._

“I'm _alright._ I mean, I've survived worse. I'll be here when you come back.” 

He means it absolutely. She's still worried, but she knows that ultimately she, too, must trust.

“Promise me you'll sleep when I'm gone. Reach for me if you need to. I'll breathe with you, wherever I am.” 

“I'll do my best.” His arm tightens across her ribcage. “No more talk of leaving the _Mirrorbright_ , though, okay? If it's mine then I'm allowed to give it to you. I know it's symbolic – that little ship couldn't save you from the New Republic fleet, if it came to that. But I'll feel better, knowing you have somewhere to go. A place of your own. Wherever _you_ are.”

“Okay,” she says, blinking back unexpected tears, wrapping her own arm over his and snuggling closer.

She's half dozed off again when his sudden embarrassment wakes her, a moment before the explanatory sensation against her backside does – a fleeting impression, before the former puts paid to the latter. She decides it's a mercy, in the moment, to sit up and scoot away just a bit; though she presses a hand on his shoulder to keep him still. She calls her raincloak to her, pulls it over her head in an unsatisfactory replacement for his warmth. 

“I do want that, eventually, you know,” she says conversationally. Then, because she's no longer that eternal child on Jakku: “ _Sex._ I mean, I’ve never felt like I _needed_ it, but I’m _interested._ If you are.” 

He manages only a half-breathless “ _Rey._ ” But he is, emphatically, interested.

“Ben. Rest and heal for me.”

“Okay.”

After a while he strokes the fabric of her raincloak, her knee beneath it. “I like the emerald,” he murmurs. “You’d look good in other colors, too. Sapphire blue. Garnet red.”  _You're beautiful._

“Color. Radical concept. Will you try it, if I do?” _So are you._

She decides to stay one more night.

***

As she rises above Ahch-To for the far-from-final time in what had been General Organa's ship, she remembers General Organa's words: _You have everything you need._ Meaning Skywalker's broken saber and his crumbling books: useful things, to be sure, but mere _things_ nonetheless _._ Meaning nothing, she'd later come to fear: just the glib words of a politician securing a particularly useful ally.

But the General  _had_ given Rey what she needed, in her way.

She didn't intend to let it go to waste.


End file.
